


Internal Bleeding

by Control_Room, Random_ag



Series: Tortured Tales [9]
Category: The Man With Eyes - Fandom
Genre: Body Horror, Dissociation, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, blood imagry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: Fanny O'Flannel is dead.Her granddaughter mourns her.
Series: Tortured Tales [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023520





	Internal Bleeding

Her breathing felt flooded, stifled.

It was not sudden, the gradual tightening of her lungs and throat clenching along a scream.

It spread along from that lump in her throat, inching along each fiber of muscle that lined her form, agonizingly slow, hot molasses oozing down the sinew, the burning fumes aiming to her eyes, as she could feel the warmth penetrate within, evaporation making her vision blur.

The sticky and sickly wrath within her was filling, inflating like dried petals soaked and bloated in water filled with iron. It was drowning her from the inside, clogging her throat, filling her stomach and lungs with an unrelenting constriction, tightening, tightening, the snake of emotions gripping harder, harder.

There would be no release.

There could not be.

How would there be? She was alone now; surrounded by kindness and love and understanding of her grief but still she was alone, robbed of her closest friend and best companion, her confidant and object of her fiery protection, the person that taught her what the color brown meant.

It was frightfully cold inside.

Not her surroundings, no, those were supposedly comforting. The hearth had a fire, the room had blankets, there was a shawl over her shoulders.

The cold spurted in bursts of blood.

It was cold inside.

Inside her.

Everything around her was warm, a pot of soup cooking her skin alive, freezing it with its heat.

And yet she was very, very cold.

Today, again, she was very, very cold. It seemed to be inevitable that the chill would consume her each year, starting from her throat once more, spreading, and her blood would drip, drip, drip where it should not have been, in a gluttonous cavity deep within her large body, yet leaving her mind and making her hollow with grief, seeping through the floor and weighing her down.

Her hands were clasped in front of her chest, and her chest was swollen with the terrible cold, with its entrenching and grasping claws.

Her blood drained into her lungs.

The hot and metallic tang dripped down her throat like sand through a sieve, increasing the gravitational pull upon her as earth shifted underneath, yet she remained anchored in space. The world pulled on her ankles, on her wrists, holding her body in that form, that silent empty sentinel. The grip that the world held upon her called her, beckoned her, but the mint colored blood held her aloft.

The agony filled her eyes, tinting everything green and grey.

There was no way for her to scream, and her chest rose and fell, rose and fell, the blood residing in each and every limb, weighing her down, pinning her hands to her chest.

Her mouth opened.

The blood climbed out and solidified in swirling vines grappled on her dark lips, slowly growing down her chin, into her bosom, around her waist, binding her knees and ankles together.

She was naught but a shell for grief, fiery blue blood gone and drained.


End file.
